


A View From The Roofs

by titC



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Winter Themes, a tiny bit of whump, mcuchristmasexchange2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27836968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Steve wants to paint, Tony wants coffee, Matt doesn't want them inhisKitchen, Foggy just wants the nice hors-d'œuvres.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 14
Kudos: 68
Collections: MCU Christmas Exchange, Marvel Fluff Bingo





	A View From The Roofs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kowaiyoukai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kowaiyoukai/gifts).



> Fills my Marvel Fluff Bingo free prompt.
> 
> Written for the MCU Christmas Exchange for kowaiyoukai, who asked for Matt/Foggy, Steve/Tony, and some seasonal fluff! Hope it hits the spot :D
> 
> As always, BIG thanks to [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel/pseuds/PixelByPixel), beta and hand-holder of legend ♥

Aw fuck, not them again.

Hell’s Kitchen is Matt’s, is _Daredevil’s_ , and Matt does not want those two encroaching here. Flying Tin Can Man and his pal of the winged helmet (no, seriously, _some_ people may mock his own _horns, Jessica, they’re horns_ , but wings? _Wings??_ ) had no reason to come fuck around here. Stark may think he’s cool as shit, but Matt knows better; the guy’s full of money and acts like it. He doesn’t belong here; the Kitchen isn’t for people like him.

It’s for people like Matt and Foggy and Karen and Melvin and, fine, Jess. So, while he’s not going to go fists-to-rocket-launcher with Iron Man – he’s _not suicidal, Foggy_ – he’s still going to loiter and glower at them from a rooftop. Stark’s tech will spot him, and Matt will show them that the Kitchen doesn’t need them: it already has a watcher.

He can hear the characteristic whine of the metal suit cut off as they reach a low roof that is way too close to Foggy’s apartment for Matt’s peace of mind, so he climbs on another building that’s slightly taller and steps to the very edge, the toes of his boots right over the street. He doesn’t care that there’s snow on the old brick; he’s not going to slip. This is his city, and it won’t kill him. Well, not like that, anyway. Hopefully something more dignified, something useful.

For now, he aims his eyeholes in Cap and Stark’s direction, tilts his head down a bit, and flexes his upper body. Foggy always bursts out laughing when he does that, his heart beating faster in excitement. Matt likes it; he likes making Foggy happy. He’s caused him enough grief over the years, so he can sacrifice a bit of his pride and dignity in exchange, right?

Most people seem to find him threatening when he does that, and that’s the point. It’s only Foggy who doesn’t. Maybe it’s because he's seen him as a skinny law student, drunk and drooling on his dorm bed, or because he’s heard him recite Thurgood Marshall like the nerd he is while in the shower, or because… you know what? It doesn’t matter. What matters is Foggy laughing, and those two interlopers leaving.

“Hey, is that Daredevil?” The voice is filtered through speakers; it’s got to be Stark.

“You’re the one with the AI in your suit, Tony; you tell me.”

“You’re the one with lynx’s eyes!” There’s a well-oiled, soft mechanical noise, and when Stark continues his voice is all natural. Did he remove his helmet? “What’s he doing, perched up there like a gargoyle?” More noises, and softer steps instead of heavy, metallic boots: he’s all out of the suit.

“He’s the local vigilante; he’s probably keeping an eye on things here.”

“Looks to me like he’s staring at us. Hi? Wow, _rude_.”

“What, did you expect he’d wave back?”

Shit, Matt didn’t spot the wave; it must have been small.

“Well I don’t know, Steve; it’s just the polite thing to do.”

Steve? Uh.

“I don’t think he has a reputation for, uh, nice.”

“We’re not trying to rob anyone! We’re the good guys! You’re _Captain America_ , you don’t get any gooder guy than that!”

…gooder guy?

“ _Gooder guy?_ Tony!” Cap-Steve laughs, and he sounds delighted. Fond, even.

“Look, you know what I mean. But yeah, you're right; maybe he’s just wary. Good for him; he’s doing his job right. Maybe we should invite him over at the tower; what do you say? ‘Hey, D-man, care for some mulled wine up in my tower? Can’t beat the view!’ How does that sound, as an invite?”

“Yeah, maybe, _if_ we can get close enough for a chat, but I don’t think he’s the chatty kind. And that’s not why I wanted to come here, Tony.”

“Ah, yeah, but you know, two drones with one arrow, right?”

“Are you channeling Clint?”

Nevermind Hawkeye the first; they’ve come here for a reason? Matt focuses more of his senses on them and hopes no one shouts for help in the next few minutes; he needs to know if they're going to threaten his neighborhood. Maybe Stark wants to buy, demolish, and build some expensive, steel-and-glass tower here? Kick good people out, make the prices skyrocket –

“…can go find another spot, if you’d prefer.”

“Nah, this is great. You don’t have to stay, Tony; I’m glad you helped but I can find my way back on foot.”

“Oh I see, when you want aerial sight to decide on the perfect sketching spot you want me, but when you get down to the actual deed you don’t want me around, uh?”

“It’s not that I don’t want you, but it’s just going to be boring, for you. I’m just… drawing what I see, and I’m not even a good artist.”

“You’re plenty good, Steve.”

“I’m just getting back into it.”

“You’re _plenty good_. Or I could keep you warm! I can use the repulsors to generate some heat while you sketch.”

“I’ve got warm clothes, Tony; I’ll be fine. I also know you didn’t sleep last night; you shouldn't stay up just to watch me scratch paper.”

There’s an awkward silence, and Matt wonders exactly what their relationship is. Friends, yes, clearly. But it sounds like Stark wants to stay, and Cap feels… unsure of his skills around Stark? Captain America himself, made as a perfect human specimen? Unexpected. Is he shy? Or just around Stark?

Still, this doesn’t change anything. The Kitchen isn’t a… a zoo, a place to visit like you’d go on a safari to take pictures of lions and giraffes, before flying away and telling your friends back home about your sanitized adventures out in the wilderness. But, at least, it doesn’t seem like there are any direct threats to Matt’s home for now, so he sighs, cracks his neck, and leaves this roof.

There are people here who actually need him, after all.

The rest of his patrol is quiet enough, so he can get a decent enough night’s rest and, for once, makes it to Nelson and Murdock before ten. Yes, before ten in the morning, Karen; you don’t have to overplay surprise like that. It happens!

“I’m just glad you’re not bleeding,” Foggy says, and Matt is torn between faking outrage at the gentle teasing in Foggy’s voice and preening at what he decides is totally praise. It’s praise, right? He is not bleeding! It’s true! “Which I’d rather never happened, but well.”

Okay, maybe not praise, but Matt will take what he can get. “It was a quiet night,” he replies with as much dignity as he can muster. He doesn’t want to sound too smug, but he doesn’t want to downplay his night job either; if he did, Foggy or Karen would just tell him to take a few nights off, which: _no_.

“Well, that’s good. I’d like to go over our notes for this afternoon; can we do that now?”

Matt nods and follows Foggy into his office. Right now he’s got his day job to worry about, and he’s lucky enough he can do it with his best friend and – with his best friend.

When they get back from court, Karen almost jumps over her desk to reach them. “Look what we got in the mail!”

Matt opens his mouth but she shoves a thick card in his hand and his fingers find the Braille right away. “Oh,” he says, “that explains it.” Most of the mail they get is digital, but someone took care to have the invitation embossed for him.

“A Stark auction and gala, _holiday-themed_ , on Saturday?” Foggy’s voice goes up at least an octave.

Karen is already calling Ellison and promising articles and interviews, but Matt doesn’t understand. Why would they be invited?

“Don’t look so glum, Matty; I don’t think we’ll be expected to make donations or buy art we can’t afford. But we can have lots of canapés and fancy bubbly!”

“Why would they invite us? Who are we, to them?” _Do they know about me and Daredevil?_ He doesn’t want to say it out loud and jinx himself.

“Dunno, but we got quite a lot of press coverage after putting Fisk back into prison. Maybe that’s it?”

“Why would they even care?”

“Maybe his estate plans clashed with Stark? I’ll look it up; I’ve got to prepare!” By which Karen means, scour archives and city records, not find the perfect dress. She freelances as a journalist when she finds something that piques her interest, and she certainly can’t refuse an opportunity to poke around New York’s Moneyed and Mighty.

Matt, of course, isn’t quite so enthusiastic. “I’ve got other plans for Saturday.”

“You’ve always got other plans, but we could have fun!” Foggy jostles his arm, and Matt can’t help smiling when Foggy mock-whispers, conspiratorial, “And maybe we could sneak in the kitchen like we used to, see what’s on offer and sample it before alien gods and super soldiers vacuum it all up!”

“I don’t think you can sneak into a Stark Tower kitchen,” Matt points out, but hey. The idea is entertaining.

“I bet _you_ could; I trust you.”

“You trust me to get in where I shouldn’t go?”

“Okay, fair; I _know_ you.” Ah, yeah; that too. “Uh, wait, it’s not at the tower; it’s – oh wow, it’s at the Met! Eh, I’ll bet there’s going to be cameras and guards everywhere.”

Well, it can’t be worse than Stark’s tower, anyway. “Wait.” Matt tilts his head. “Do you expect _me_ to take all the risks and bring you back all the fluffy crab things I can find?” He’d do it too, for Foggy. But, well, he’s got to show some spine; he can’t let the squishy feelings he’s always had for Foggy show too much. It’s a delicate balance, really: a few times in the past Matt buried them so far down he convinced himself he was totally over it, that he didn’t need Foggy and was, even, a danger to him. And that… didn’t go well, in the end. But Foggy doesn’t want Matt; after he parted ways with Marci – again – he put most of his energy into rebuilding their firm, and Matt wants to prove himself to Foggy as a partner after all the shit he put him through. As long as they’re in each other’s lives, the rest doesn’t matter.

“I like the caviar ones,” Karen says, and Matt ends up with a list of foodstuffs to steal. Which he won’t, of course: he was raised in a Catholic orphanage; he knows stealing is bad. Like… hitting people. Bad.

“Great! So that’s settled. No one will suspect the blind guy to be on an hors-d’œuvre caper, right?”

Matt sighs, but can’t help grinning. “Fine, I’ll risk my reputation for you,” he says. And, yes, he in fact means it, but this he doesn’t say.

* * *

“Do you think it’s going to work?” Tony really, really wants it to work, and if Steve said it would, well, he trusts Steve. It’s just Daredevil is notoriously hard to catch, a loner, and fiercely devoted to Hell’s Kitchen; last night, Tony definitely got _Get out of my home, interlopers_ vibes from the guy. It looked like he wanted to incinerate Tony and Steve with his eyes.

“It’s our best chance.”

Steve always sounds reassuring and confident; it never fails to give Tony hope. Steve’s like a rock, and not just because of the pecs. (And abs. And glutes. And biceps. And – okay, yes, fine, Tony’s ogled the man, alright? He admits it. But who hasn’t? He’s supposed to be… oglable; that was Erskine’s plan. Yes, _fine_ , it wasn’t _quite_ the plan, but it was a logical consequence of the plan. And who’s Tony that he’d be above admiring things? He collects art! He likes art; he’s a patron, he… not that Steve is a thing. He’s a person, and he’s smart too. And an artist! Tony likes art _and_ artists. So of course he likes Steve! He can’t not, right? It’s unavoid– )

“… Tony?”

“Uh?”

“Did you listen to anything I said?”

“Um.” Tony frantically replays the background sounds to his _possibly_ inappropriate musings. “I… agree?”

Steve grins. “Oh, good. You _agree_.” Tony gulps. “Thanks, Tony.”

“You’re, uh, welcome.” Shit, _what_ has he agreed to? But Steve is smiling at him, amused and a little bit soft, and whatever he’s said yes to, it can’t be too bad. Steve wouldn’t do him a dirty like that.

“So, I’ve been talking with Nat and Happy about security; with the focus on everyday heroes we expect a different type of threat.”

“Uh, about that.” Tony doesn’t want to look at Steve’s face when he realizes he won’t have any say in the security protocols; instead, he opens the fridge and looks for the coffee jar.

“Tony?”

“Dark roast? Something lighter?”

“ _Tony_.”

Time to face the music, then. Or, yes, better, the coffee machine; he’s tweaked it so much no one dares to use it apart from Tony himself. The rest of the team use the others (yes, plural) that _he’s_ strictly forbidden from touching, or else. (And when Nat says _or else_ , you comply.) “The city is going to host and secure it,” he says as fast as he can while banging mugs in the cupboard above the machine.

“ _What?_ ”

“You know it’s for the benefit of local associations, yeah? So, they wanted to provide the venue, and NYPD officers will be there. It’s going to be at the Met; they’ve used it before. They want to be… Avengers-free, the mayor said.”

“The mayor said that to your face?”

“Pepper’s, actually. But yeah, there’s been criticism about SHIELD and Avengers interventions so we want to play it down, especially since it’s a Stark event, not an Avengers one.”

“But I – if you’re there, then you know people like Doom or AIM will try to get in, and the city services may not be enough to…”

Tony finally turns around. “We’ll be fine. As I said, it’s not an Avengers event, so we won’t get Doom or AIM, I promise.”

Steve frowns, and his shirtsleeves strain when he crosses his arms. Not that Tony’s staring. (Fine, he’s staring). “Still, I’m worried.”

“Hey, you’ll be around, yeah? As an artist.”

“Yeah, not as Captain America; I’m not going to carry anything bigger than a glass all evening. I don’t like it, Tony.”

Hm. Well, hey, turns out Tony likes Steve worrying about him. Kind of. He can take care of himself, but Steve knows that; he just… is concerned. For Tony. Which, along with the aforementioned bulging biceps, is giving Tony all sorts of warm fuzzies inside, if he has to be honest. Which he totally is, in his own head. “Nothing’s going to happen, just schmoozing and boozing and spending money. You can bet lots of guests are going to have their own bodyguards too, NYPD or not.”

“I could be yours.”

Aaah. _Aaaaaaah_. Tony wants to fan himself, but he can’t. He’ll suffer the sudden heat with discretion and dignity. (But he’s certainly going to have interesting fodder for his, uh, dreams. Yeah, _dreams_. With a Whitney Houston soundtrack.) “Happy will be there. Don’t steal his job; he’d go to the tabloids, and he knows too much. I’d have to have him killed.”

“Oh, ha ha, very credible, Tony.” There, the frown has disappeared. Good; Steve’s got a nice smile.

“Look, relax, it’ll be fun. We’re going to meet and greet, make people bid on art and fund good projects, and hopefully make contact with a local vigilante or at least his friends. Nothing bad’s going to happen.”

Right as he says them Tony wants to take his words back; it feels like he’s just jinxed himself.

(He’s right.)

Things start out fine.

Tony almost has a heart attack when he sees Steve, who arrived a bit earlier to keep his cover as a local artist, wearing flannel and slacks that look straight out of the 40s instead of the tux Tony was hoping for, but otherwise things go well. Not that the flannel and slacks don’t suit Steve, because Steve can make anything look good, but a tux? That would have been quite a sight. Tony’s hopes are dashed, but…

“Well played, Steve,” he says once he gets close.

“I knew you weren’t listening.” Steve grins and knocks his glass against Tony’s. “I felt this was truer to the struggling artist persona, you know?”

“You mean that you’re struggling so badly you have to raid your great-grandfather’s closet?”

“Hey, you know that’s not what my actual great-grandfather was wearing.”

“Disappointing.” Tony looks at the crowd, nods at some familiar faces. With Steve by his side, he always feels better; they’re a team. They’re a unit. When they fight, they know where the other is without even looking; right now, he knows Steve has his back. Doombots or paparazzi, doesn’t matter.

“Like the tie,” Steve says.

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” Tony pats it; it’s a dark red silk tie with little Iron Man helmets alternating with green Christmas trees. And he’s got Captain America socks, but he keeps that to himself. “It’s part of our seasonal merch; if people see me wearing it, maybe they’ll buy it.” The proceeds will go to fund scholarships, but he doesn’t mention that either. It doesn’t matter; what matters is that Steve is having a good time. Tony turns back to him. ”I saw you submitted that piece you did on that Hell’s Kitchen rooftop.”

“I only did the sketch there, but yes. It’s a New York-themed art auction for New York, it felt… appropriate.”

“I like it. I might buy it.”

“Because you can see Stark Tower in the background?”

“Of course.”

Tony, in fact, likes it because of the mood. He grew up here, in New York; he loves the West Coast, but it’s not quite home like this place will always be. And this painting…the eyes are first drawn to a darker corner, but beyond that it’s the city seen from the top of a Manhattan mid-rise, at night. The lights of cars and street signs far down are blurred by distance, as are the Tower’s lights; the buildings around are dark shapes with bright spots of light in some windows. It’s both busy and peaceful, just like Tony feels when he’s flying over at night: far up above, you don’t really hear all the sounds, the honking and shouting and laughing, or if you hear them they’re muted, softer. But it’s all so alive, and it looks almost… organic, yes, like one big organism with a strong beating heart, cars flowing through like blood cells. But the buildings though, they’re more like a computer’s architecture. Does that make New York a cyborg? Tony taps his fingers on the arc reactor hidden under his clothes. Is _he_ a cyborg?

“Tony?”

“Hm?”

“You zoned out for a minute.”

“I don’t zone out; I… invent. I’m a futurist, you know, and an engineer. A genius!”

“Sure.” Steve gives him a soft, indulgent smile and Tony feels entirely too human in that moment, all fragile and squishy bits. “I think we’re about to be introduced to the lawyers who put Fisk into prison twice; you might want to be fully with us for that.”

Oh, right, the guys – oh, and gal – who have an in with Daredevil. Time to put the Stark Charm forward and the daydreaming on the backburner.

* * *

So yeah, back when he worked at HB&C, Foggy met some of those people; he got invited once or twice to events like this one by their clients. But this is still out of his comfort zone, even if he can play the part. Karen, as usual, looks in her element; she’s very good at pretending to be a slightly ditzy blonde who had one glass too many, and the rich and unsuspecting tell her all sorts of things. She, of course, remembers it all, and Foggy feels no compassion for most of the wealthy and powerful who keep spouting condescending shit about the people they’re supposedly here to help. As if; his time in big firms were eye-opening enough.

No, Foggy is really here for expensive bubbly and canapés, and also to keep one Matt Murdock in check, since he looks ready to snap and either start ranting about Thurgood Marshall or start dishing out punches and dropkicks. Foggy’s tried to pacify him with food quests (Matt’s nose is very useful to spot the best and freshest, and to find your favorites before they’re demolished) and sent him to try and infiltrate the kitchen (Matt was politely, but firmly, redirected back to the party and Foggy had to put his foot down when _someone_ suggested stealth-ninja-ing his way in instead of oh-poor-blind-me-ing it).

At least, the booze is great, the food is good, the decoration tasteful – all silver and blue, with real, big Christmas trees mounted on pedestals around the doors – and he’s got to admit the art is cool. He doesn’t have the money to buy any, but there’s one painting that looks like a night view from the roof of his own building that he wishes he could afford. It reminds him of Matt, because if he knows the view from his own roof, it is of course because of Matt Murdock, or rather Daredevil.

Finally, they end up meeting The Stark himself; he’s hanging with another dude whose sense of style is from a century ago (he even parted and glued his hair, and Foggy’s wondering if it’s in fact some sort of cosplay). Stark himself is wearing a dark gray suit with thin red pinstripes that looks like it cost more than what Foggy makes in a year; it’s cut to perfection and falls just right over his shoes, the lapels are asymmetrical but, like, in a cool way, and then… then, there’s the tie. Foggy kind of wants the same one, but maybe with the letters DD instead of Iron Man’s helmet; Foggy is a Kitchen man and he’s loyal to its local vigilante. (No other reason, of course.)

“So, you’re the team who put Wilson Fisk in prison!” Stark’s smile is a bit too sharp for Foggy’s comfort, but he nods.

“Yep, that’s us.” He glances to Matt, who looks like he’s listening to something surprising at the moment and not paying attention to their meet and greet, so Foggy turns to Karen while he tries to kick Matt as discreetly as he can to snap him out of it.

They make the requisite small talk, and it turns out that the guy with the pomaded hair is, in fact, the artist who did the painting Foggy was eyeing earlier. Matt keeps blanking out and looking vaguely fish-like, what with his slightly parted lips; Foggy has to do all the heavy lifting in the conversation once Karen leaves them to go flitter around some estate magnate or bank mogul or someone of that ilk.

“And you worked with Daredevil, right?”

Foggy can almost hear Matt’s jaw snapping before he speaks. “Daredevil?” Actually Daredevil asks.

“Yes, he helped you with Fisk, right?”

Foggy elbows Matt before the idiot says something incriminating. “Well, he was instrumental in getting Fisk back where he belongs, yes.”

“But you know him,” Stark says.

“Who doesn’t, in the Kitchen? But we’re not… hanging out with him, if that’s what you’re picturing.”

“I’d love to meet the man; I’m sure I could make him something better than those cute little batons he uses. Maybe some armor?”

“No armor.” Matt, _no_.

“What? Why?” Rogers, the artist, has been laid back until this very moment. But now, his eyes are laser-focused on Matt, and Foggy’s tingly dread alert radar thing is beeping loud and fast.

“It’s heavy,” Matt replies. “Daredevil relies on speed and agility, right? Any extra weight is a liability.”

“Hm. Have you ever seen him in action?”

“ _Tony_.”

There’s a beat while Stark processes what he’s just said. “Aw, sorry.”

Matt’s grin is very shark-like; he looks like he’s about to land the final, lethal blow in court. Foggy doesn’t find it hot at all, of course. He never has, not since their debate days in Columbia. Nope.

“It’s fine, Mr. Stark. I’ve been told about him, even if I haven’t ever seen him.”

“Right, of course.”

Foggy is planning an escape from the conversation but Rogers still has questions. Not questions Foggy would have expected from some guy who never got the memo about grandpa slacks and not hiking pants up to your nipples, either. (Fine, it’s a slight exaggeration. But a _really_ s _light_ one.)

“I remember video footage where he was wearing some sort of woven Kevlar, but he’s ditched it since then. Unless he’s enhanced somehow, he must be taking damage pretty often.”

 _Yes, he is_ , Foggy thinks, _but you’re being so subtle about your curiosity he’s never going to tell you._

And then Matt does the blunt weapon thing (emphasis on _blunt_ , Jesus, Matt): “Did you only invite us to ask about him?”

“Well, to be frank, it was part of the reason, but your work is really the kind of thing we’re trying to promote at this gala,” Stark replies.

“That's – ”

 _That’s_ when the giant silvery chandelier above the crowd crashes down, while flash bangs and smoke bombs land everywhere around them. Foggy is shoved under a table; there’s shouting, some gunshots, but his ears are still ringing and everything is muffled. Between the smoke and the dim lighting, his eyes aren’t really helping either, so he’s left trying to pat his way out from his hiding place. Except something or someone lands on, then through, the table, and he passes out.

* * *

Matt’s head is pounding, his ears ringing, and his body protesting at the cramped position he’s waking up in. “Ugh,” he says, before remembering it would have been smart to fake sleep.

“Hey, finally. I was wondering if they’d hit you too hard.”

Aw, fuck. That’s Stark. Matt sighs and tries to focus on his surroundings; the place sounds empty apart from the two of them. They’re in a small room, on a concrete floor, probably underground. He can’t hear the buzz of electricity, but his hearing isn’t working at top capacity. Maybe there’s light somewhere, even if he can’t tell at the moment.

So: “Shit.” And that’s all Matt will say on the matter.

“Wow, not a morning person, are we? Not that it’s morning. Or, uh, maybe it is? Eh, who cares. So, catch-up time for sleeping beauty here: I think we’ve been kidnapped. I can tell you from experience: these things are always terribly boring. Unless they start torturing you, in which case boring is the preferred option.”

“Ugh.”

“Right, yes. But don’t worry; I don’t think they’re going to carve us up or anything like that. Probably? I usually get out of these things myself, but they took my watch and the tools I had in my boots and, well. There’s not even a single paperclip here. Maybe I could short-circuit something, jimmy the lock open, _something_ , you know? Guess I’ll have to see what our hosts carry around next time they pay us a visit. You don’t have your glasses anymore, by the way.”

Matt grunts. Stark’s stream of words is not helping the headache growing behind his eyes.

“Yeah, sucks, I know. Shame, those shades have style; I’ll get you new ones. Pretty sure they’re kidnapping me and you’re collateral damage, so… least I can do. Anyway, I reckon even if we just sit tight and wait we’ll get rescued. Cap won’t let me hear the end of it if I just wait patiently instead of MacGyvering my way out, but I don’t want you to get hurt, you know?”

“ _Shut up_.”

Stark shuts up. For five seconds. “Whoa. Uh, that’s not my forte, you know? Shutting up. Do you –”

There’s some kind of pressure on Matt’s ears, a constant thrum that’s not quite electricity but means… power. It seems to come from Stark, but Stark just said he doesn’t have any tools left. “You sure they took all your tech?”

“… yes,” he replies after a pause. Stark’s lying.

“There’s something. On you.”

“No.”

“I can hear it.”

Stark scoffs.

“I can tell you’re lying – Fuck. They’re back.”

Stark gets to his feet and joins him, going from annoying asshole to ready for a fight way faster than Matt would have imagined. “Get behind me,” he says.

“No.”

“Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m an Avenger; you’re a lawyer.”

Matt is absolutely taking it the wrong way. He stands his ground, whispers “Four men, three guns,” and grins when he hears Stark mutter, “What the hell?”

Thirty seconds later, the four men are out cold, and Matt can feel Stark’s eyes boring in his back. “Looks like Law School has some unexpected parts in its curriculum.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Matt throws back.

“Weeell, yes I _would_.” Stark kneels to pick up two of the guns; he sticks them in the small of his back, probably wishing he still had his belt. Matt can relate.

“This is too easy,” he says. “They didn’t even tie us up; what kind of kidnapping is that?”

“Oh, uh, they did. I just, I was bored, you know? You were still sleeping off whatever it was that knocked us out, so I started on your knots first. Once I’d figured them out, I could do mine; they weren’t too hard.”

What, and he’s supposed to be grateful, now? He could have done it himself. “Thanks,” Matt forces out. There, he’s being polite. For cooperation’s sake.

“Wow, sounds like it hurt to say that.”

Matt bites down on something like _Fuck off_. He manages to keep it in, but it costs him. Foggy would be proud, and the thought warms Matt a little bit. He’s got to get out and find Foggy, make sure he’s fine. Matt shoved him out of the way and under a table as soon as the attack started, but…

“Okay, thoughts forward. How do we get out?”

From the way the building echoes and the cooler air currents he can feel… “That way,” Matt replies.

“What, you know the place?”

“No. But it’s that way, and I’m pretty sure we’re going to have to fight our way out.”

“Oh yeah? And you can tell how many of them there are, too?”

“Around twenty; some move like they’re combat-trained. Most are armed.” Matt turns on his heels to follow the buzzing in the walls; his hearing is recovering and now they’re out of the room they were held in, he feels more confident.

“Right. And how would you know that? No, first, where are you going? You said the way out was… hey!”

“The circuit breaker is down that corridor.”

“Oh, of course, the circuit breaker. How is that helpful, pray tell?”

“I’m going to make things harder for them, and easier for me.” They reach the box; Matt opens it, feels for the lever, and pulls it down.

A couple floors above them, he hears some swearing; the lights are out. Hopefully it’s still night outside, and they’re going to be floundering in the dark. Matt, however, will not. He catches Stark’s wrist and pulls him along to the way out, smiling under the cover of darkness at the spluttering and hissing coming from behind him.

Riling him up is kind of fun, after all.

* * *

Murdock is an asshole. Okay, he’s a lawyer and most lawyers are assholes, but this one? _Major_ asshole. Also, somehow, he can turn into a real Tasmanian devil, a whirlwind of fists and feet and – holy shit. _Holy shit_. He’s navigating the pitch-black building (no emergency lighting here; Tony’s appalled at the lack of safety protocols, _really_ ) like, well, like he can see in the dark. Like everybody says about Daredevil.

“Are you actually blind?”

“If I had a dollar every time someone asks that question,” Murdock mutters, then yanks Tony to the side and, apparently, into some room that Tony hadn’t (of course) seen. “They’re looking for us.”

“Well, duh.” Voices and footsteps are getting closer, too. Tony squints and sees light a bit further up. “They’re going to bring flashlights and weapons.”

“We’ll fight our way out.“

“Uh, sorry, I didn’t bring my armor; I don’t have night vision without it. I got guns, though.”

“No killing.”

Well, killing’s not the plan, but… Tony slides a gun out and holds it barrel down in front of him, his finger resting against it. Trigger discipline, like he learned as a toddler. Funny how it’s one of these things he doesn’t forget, eh? Even if he hasn’t used a gun like this one in years, it still feels familiar in his hand. “Sure, but I’ll put not dying above not killing.”

Murdock grunts, and puts a hand to the wall. “They’re between us and the way out.”

“There’s never only one way out.”

“No, but they’ve fanned out.”

Trapped, uh? Well, they’ll have to escape on their own; Tony’s ego won’t accept anything else, all things considered. The look on Steve’s face if he has to come and rescue them from small-time gangsters… these people don’t have advanced tech or super-powered hitters, not that he’s seen, and Tony’s an Avenger. Right? He shifts on his feet and feels cooler air hit his face. He looks up reflexively, though he can’t see anything in the dark; maybe there are vents. Clint’s always into vents.

“We wouldn’t fit.” Hey! “A child might, but not grown men.”

Oh, fine. Well, not really fine; Tony had _hopes_ for a minute. But… “What are they waiting for? They know where we are, right?”

“Waiting for us to step out.” Murdock tilts his head this way and that. “There’s about ten on either side.”

“We need to even out the odds.” Tony doesn’t have a flashlight, but he’s got the arc reactor. He opens his shirt and tugs down the opaque fabric he’s wearing around his torso, just enough to have a soft blue glow in the room. It looks like a storage room for everything from gas canisters to power tools, paint cans and… wow, those are _huge_ pliers. Tony doesn’t want to think about how kidnappers could use them right now.

Murdock blows out a breath; he sounds annoyed. “What’s that noise?”

“What noise?”

“Coming from your… from you. Artificial, humming. On your chest?”

Shit, he’s really blind, uh. But how can he even _hear_ the arc reactor? “Later. I’m looking for something… aha!”

“What?”

“Mirror.” Well, a smooth sheet of metal, but it’ll do. “I’ll blind them with their own light, how’s that?” Never let it be said that the great Tony Stark could only survive in a high-tech environment. He grabs the welding mask on the table – can’t go wrong with a bit of nostalgia, and also eye protection; not everyone is already blind here – and they take position on both sides of the open doorway. “You go left, I go right, okay?”

“Are you giving me _orders_?” Murdock hisses.

Aw, so indignant; a real pissy cat. Guess Mr. Devil isn’t used to teamwork, eh? “On the count of three.”

Tony absolutely isn’t grinning when he jumps out.

So fine, yes, all right, maybe Tony can admit he was a bit reckless there and _yes, Steve_ , he’s well aware he got shot but hey, the mirror trick worked and the goon’s aim was messed enough he got shot in the leg. No, _through_ the leg. It’s already out! By itself! Isn’t that better than, you know, not?

“You should have just waited for us, Tony.”

“Aw, I’m a big boy; I can get myself out of these situations!” Maybe lose a bit of blood on the way. Or a lot? There’s a _lot_ of red, but he’s not a doctor – not that kind of doctor, anyway. “I’m not a special snowflake to protect,” he adds as he watches one actual snowflake land on his leg and melt right away. He’s got his pride.

“But you have a team. We traced you here and Nat was already in the building; you didn’t have to endanger yours… the both of you like that!”

Tony looks to the side. Yeah, he got lucky, but Murdock… “He’s going to be fine, right?”

“I don’t know, Tony; I’m not a doctor.” Steve leans against the gurney. “I think so. They’re taking him to the tower too; he’s going to stay overnight. At least. The medics don’t look too worried, but he’s in for some time off.” The other lawyer, Foggy Nelson – what kind of name is that? – is bent over the other gurney and speaking to his friend, one hand pushing back hair that looks sticky with blood. When he looks up Tony can see his downturned mouth, the wide blue eyes. Kind of like Steve’s when Tony does something brave (“No, Tony, it wasn’t brave; it was reckless!” Pff. _Brave_.) that ends up with, maybe, a stay in the infirmary, some sexy bandages (look, even injured Tony looks good, and he knows it), and the good drugs.

Steve gives a startled burst of laughter, and Tony looks back at him. “Uh?”

“Nothing.” Probably not nothing, but Tony focuses on the soft, almost fond look in Steve’s eyes. They’re good friends, even if they’re not… the rest of what Tony would like them to be. (I mean, have you seen that ass? You can’t blame him, right?)

“Wow, he’s really chatty when he’s on pain meds.”

Tony cranes his neck around; it sounds like Nat.

“Yes, he is.” Steve’s voice is a bit strangled, for some reason. Tony’s brain feels sluggish; he can’t figure out why Steve would be… worried? Huh.

Then the gurney he’s on is moving and he loses sight of Steve, then of everything else.

* * *

Black Widow is as beautiful and scary in the flesh as Foggy had imagined, but given the circumstances, Foggy can’t say he really enjoyed meeting her.

Once he woke up and crawled out from under the table, he looked around. He quickly saw most people seemed fine if shocked, but he also didn’t see any sign of Matt. Or of Stark, for that matter, and the guy isn’t the kind to hide in the shadows. Matt might, but Foggy had a… feeling. A hunch. A gut warning. Karen shook her head at him from the other side of the hall and gave him a thumbs-up; he replied with a nod. She looked busy helping a woman who was lying on the floor and holding her arm next to one of the trees that had toppled from their pedestals on either side of the door, so he let her be and didn’t warn her about Matt; no need to worry her yet.

Soon enough, he spotted Steve the artist standing tall and speaking into a comm that was absolutely not a regular smartphone. Steve the artist, he figured out, had non-painting related skills that meant he had Stark tech around his wrist that was plain to see with his shirtsleeve pushed up, so Foggy cracked his neck (well, it didn’t crack, but he pretended it did) and joined him.

“So,” he said conversationally. “Not just a struggling painter, right?”

It turned out Steve the artist was also Captain America, that both Matt and Stark had been kidnapped by unknown assailants, and that no one stopped Foggy when he followed him out to watch a helicopter land in front of the Met.

“Who could be after both your firm and Tony?”

“Maybe it’s a coincidence,” Foggy tried. “Just… chance.”

“Right, chance.” Hey, Foggy didn’t deserve that kind of stinkeye from Captain America; he was protecting Matt’s secret identity here! “We can find where Tony is thanks to his tech; if your partner is with him then we’ll find him too.”

“I’m coming with. Never know when you might need a lawyer; I say.”

That got him a smile. “As long as you don’t throw up in the chopper.”

Foggy didn’t throw up, but it was close.

Once they found where Stark and Matt were, Foggy watched the SHIELD team – plus Hawkeye and Black Widow – storm the building; even though he is a seasoned New Yorker and there were no crazy monsters from outer space, Foggy was impressed. Cap & Co jumped down from the helicopter onto the roof; there was a lot of shouting and shooting, a lot of flashing lights with all the cop cars and ambulances around and finally, finally, they got them out. It was Foggy’s turn to jump out too (although the heli had landed by then, but hey, Foggy wasn’t a suicidal super-powered mega-trained ninja circus spy, you know?) and he ran straight to Matt, who was hobbling out of a burst-open door and braced over the Widow’s shoulder. He passed out right as Foggy reached him, and he watched medics swarm around him and put him on a stretcher.

And now Foggy’s trying to remember Matt’s survived worse, that the blood he can see everywhere isn’t only Matt’s, that the medics are good, that they’re taking him to a top-notch facility. He focuses on their reassurances and tries to believe them.

But he finds he can’t detach himself from Matt’s hand, that he can’t look away from that face, and he digs his heels in until they let him climb into the ambulance too.

“So that’s really him, then.” Foggy looks up from his phone and sees Steve the Artist-and-Avenger observing Matt, still out for the count on the bed. He’s still as pale as the sheets, in spite of the blood transfusions. “Daredevil.”

“Yeah.”

“How is he?”

“Sleeping. For once.”

“Not good at taking care of himself, is he?” Foggy shakes his head. “I know the kind. May I?”

Well, when Cap himself asks if he can sit next to you, there’s only one answer: “Sure.”

“We won’t out him; we understand the value of a secret identity. Not all of us are as open about who we are as Tony.”

“That’s good to hear.” Not that _Matt_ is always very good at keeping Daredevil disconnected from himself, but it’s true that the blindness is a great… mask. Ha. “How is St… Tony?”

Cap’s lips quirk up; he looks fond and exasperated all at once and Foggy feels like he’s looking into a mirror for a second. “Tony’s Tony. He’s redesigning the Iron Man suit while he’s high on painkillers, so: business as usual.”

“Is it a good idea? It doesn’t sound like a good idea.”

“Oh, it’s not. But he doesn’t have access to his own servers right now, so it’s not going to do any harm. As long as we can get him to stay put for a while…” He sighs. “A bullet through the leg won’t stop me; it may not even register in a combat situation. But people like Tony, like your Mr. Murdock…”

 _His_ Mr. Murdock, huh? Foggy likes the sound of that. “Matt isn’t very good at remembering he doesn’t have any sort of healing factor; it’s true. I learned about Daredevil when I found him half-dead on his floor, in a pool of his own blood. So I guess this,” Foggy says with a nod at Matt’s motionless body, “is nothing. A knife to the gut… it’s far from his first time, and probably not his last.”

“But it never gets any easier, to see them like this.”

“No.” Foggy sighs. No, it never does. “Mr. – Captain.”

“I told you; call me Steve. Please.”

Oh, well then. First-name basis with Cap; at least today’s not a total fiasco. “Steve. Why did you want to get in touch with Daredevil?”

“Are you asking me if my intentions are pure?”

“Well, I guess I am. You invite us to some hobnobbing event and this is how it ends, with Matt getting a new hole torn into him. What you people do, all the Avengers fights… he’s not suited for that. It’s not what he does.” It would kill him. He’d go, and fight, and die. Foggy knows the likelihood of Matt making it to a ripe old age is slim, but he’s allowed to hope, right? He’s allowed to want to see Matt grow old, with white hair and a lined face and still that smile.

“I know, but there’s no reason we can’t be in touch either; we can help each other. Tony could make him better equipment; I’d love to train with him… he could call us if he needs backup, too.”

Foggy doesn't think Matt would; he already won’t call Jess unless Foggy makes him, and they’ve worked together before. “I’ll keep it in mind and tell him about it.”

Cap – Steve’s face turns a bit rueful. “But you don’t want to. You’re worried for him, and you think we’d bring him more danger than help.” Well, yes. “You should talk to Clint; they’ve got a lot in common.”

“Hawkeye’s definitely not blind.”

“No, but he’s deaf. And he spends a lot of time in Bed-Stuy, where he takes care of his community just like Daredevil does for Hell’s Kitchen. He’s not enhanced and he doesn’t have fancy armor; he’s just a decent guy doing the right thing. Fighting bullies so good folk can have a better life.”

Yeah, Foggy knows the type. “And he’s an Avenger.”

“He’s not always an active member; most of us aren’t. But we have each other’s back.”

“Matt’s not great with teams.”

“Aren’t you his team? You and Ms. Page?”

Foggy thinks about it. They’ve had their ups and downs, but they’ve managed to rebuild their ties, made them even stronger. They could never truly destroy what is between them; if what came before didn’t then nothing will. “I think I prefer the word family. We’re family, by now.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “That’s a good word.”

They stay quiet for a while; Foggy’s brain keeps going back on that whole conversation. An offer of help, and the shared experience of seeing someone you love have brush after brush with death, always fearing it’s going to be one time too many. Yeah, Foggy can relate. Well, not with the supersoldier part, of course, plus Foggy’s hair and fashion sense are way more fabulous than Steve’s, and he’s a kickass lawyer. But the rest of it – fearing for someone’s life, yet knowing that grounding them would be a death sentence… that’s something he knows, something he feels in his bones every single day. For that one idiot there on the bed, somehow still breathing in spite of all his attempts at suicide by villains.

And because he can empathize, he says: “You should go back to Tony, I think. I’ll stay here. He’s your family, too.”

“Right.” Steve doesn’t move, so Foggy turns to look at him. Captain America looks, in fact, kind of scared.

“What’s wrong?” Steve shakes his head, but Foggy’s used to the heroic, emotionally-constipated, tight-jawed type. “Don’t say you’re fine; something’s eating at you.” Or someone, more like. Cap is anxious, and it doesn’t take a Ph.D. in psychology to guess who’s high up there in his list of People To Worry About. “You know, I find it easier to be around than not. Ate me right up, when we were… not seeing each other. Ha, sounds like we’re lovers now.”

“Aren’t you?”

“What? No!” What he feels doesn’t show, right?

“Oh. I thought you were. The way you talk about him…”

“What about the way I talk about him?”

“Like he’s the most important person in your life, like you know you can’t lose him.”

Well, that’s not wrong, but… “No, it’s not like that. He’s not into guys, for one thing.”

And then, shockingly, Steve grins. “You sure? Well, you can always ask him. He’s been faking sleep for a while. Pretty suspicious, if you ask me.”

“What? Wait, _what_?”

But Steve is already through the door and Foggy can’t really yell _Asshole!_ at Captain America while he’s in the Avengers’ medical wing, can he? (He’s _really_ tempted to, not gonna lie.) So he turns back to Matt, sees his eyelids flutter, and _then_ says, “Asshole!”

But when Matt’s fingers twitch as he tries to raise his hand in Foggy’s direction, well. Foggy practically teleports to the bed and starts berating Matt about his recklessness, making him worry, and getting injured _again_ ; Matt just grins dopily like a doped-up dope, saying _Yes, Foggy_ , and _I’m sorry, Foggy_ , and _I won’t do it again, Foggy_ (that one’s a filthy, filthy lie, but Foggy lets it slide. For now.)

Matt’s eyes are aimed way off to Foggy’s right because of the drugs, he’s got tubes coming out of his stomach to drain whatever it is that needs draining and an IV line in the arm and… and Foggy just wants to kiss him and shake him until Matt gets it through his thick skull that he is not allowed to give Foggy white hairs like that. Just… Not Allowed.

But then, “Love you too,” the blind idiot mumbles, and Foggy absolutely doesn’t kiss him, terrible breath and all (who’s got the worst between Foggy’s gallons of coffee and Matt’s post-anesthesia state is something they’ll discuss later).

He never developed any sort of resistance to Matt Murdock from that day he tapped his way into their shared dorm, and Foggy’s not planning on ever doing so. _Too late_ can come so very soon; he’s not going to let it happen.

* * *

Steve hopes his little matchmaking works; he knew they weren’t an item but he saw Matt’s face when he pushed Foggy under the table, and he’s seen the way Foggy looks at his friend. Steve knows he looks at Tony in the same way; Nat often calls him lovesick and mopey, usually when Tony’s just far enough he _probably_ won’t hear but still might. But Tony never heard, or at least never mentioned it. And if Steve isn’t sure he can have his happy ending, then he sure hopes the two lawyers can.

JARVIS must somehow sense his mood because the elevator just takes him quietly up to the penthouse where Tony’s been moved after they closed up his leg. You can’t keep Tony in a hospital; if you want even the slimmest chance of getting him to stay put for more than thirty seconds, you just take him to one of his favorite places – workshop or penthouse, basically – and give him something to occupy his mind.

Of course, right as Steve steps out of the elevator, he sees Tony trying to pour himself some scotch while balancing on one leg, and that… is not the plan.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to right now, Tony,” he says as he hurries to take the tumbler from Tony’s hand. “And you shouldn’t be standing on that leg.” He had to have used it to get to the bar, since the crutches are still leaning against the couch.

“It’s fine; the docs fixed it. And it wouldn't even be mixing it with drugs; I skipped the last pills. Make my brain too slow, and I need it,” he adds with a poke at his forehead. Tony gives one last forlorn look at the glass but lets Steve gently steer him back to the sunken couch. Steve practically carries him down the few steps, but if he minds it doesn’t show.

“It’s not fine yet, and it will take even more time to heal if you keep moving. And replacing pain meds with alcohol won’t help either.”

“Aw. But I have things to do! With my _brain_!”

“Like what?”

Tony shrugs. “You know, _things_. Brainy things.”

“Uh huh, brainy things.” Steve settles back on the couch and watches Tony’s fingers fidget and twitch on the leg he’s propped up on some pillows. Tony thinks with his hands; he designs and tries things out and experiments; he builds his ideas to see if they work and then to improve them. Even now, his brain won’t rest. What is he working on, in this very moment? Arc reactor, kitchen toaster, business ventures… Steve wants to sketch those fingers, capture their vitality on paper; he wants to draw Tony as he sees him, and show the world his brilliance. Tony in his faded jeans and well-worn shirt, Tony’s hair standing on end after he’s been raking fingers through it as he works, the divot between his eyebrows and those big, intelligent eyes.

“How’s Matt?”

“He’s awake; Dr. Park said he is doing as well as can be expected.” Steve doesn’t mention what he hopes is happening several floors down; they deserve some privacy for that talk (and whatever comes after that talk, although he doubts anything more strenuous than a kiss will occur today).

“So. It was him all along, uh.”

“Yes.”

“He reminds me of you, you know? Always willing to fight the good fight, helping everyone no matter how small. And he’s doing it both as a lawyer and a vigilante; their firm does a lot of pro bono work.”

“And he’s taking insane risks although he’s not enhanced in any way to do all of that, at any cost to himself. Like you.”

“I’m not that selfless, Steve.”

 _Yes, you are._ Steve doesn’t say it out loud; he knows Tony has selective deafness whenever someone compliments him about anything that’s not his tech. He settles for, “Well, you can’t tell me what to think; _I’m_ the Captain, not you.”

“Steeeeve!”

He grins. “It’s true.” Tony rolls his eyes and falls back against the couch; his head lolls back and he bares his neck. It’s scruffy and pale, fragile yet strong. All the blood pumping up and down, the muscles, the soft, vital tissues, naked and unprotected. He’s not wearing an opaque undershirt like he usually does at public functions to hide his arc reactor, and its light glow coming through AC/DC’s faces is such a Tony thing. Steve’s own throat tightens a little. “I talked to Nat,” he says when he can speak again. “You two were specifically targeted by people hired by Wilson Fisk. Well, officially he’s unconnected, of course, but…”

“He hired those goons from his jail cell? No wonder they were so bad at their job.”

Not _that_ bad, but yeah, and Steve isn’t about to complain about that. “He’s got an ongoing feud with Murdock, and there’s something about property he wants to buy, I think. I didn’t follow everything.”

“Hm. Maybe I should make something for Matt, then. A real suit, something Kevlar at least, and something he can carry around even in his civilian life. He can’t fight when he’s a lawyer, not without blowing his cover. I need a tablet; I’ve got some ideas…”

Steve pushes Tony back into the cushions. “Stay here; I’ll get it for you.”

But Tony grabs his wrist and just… stops moving. Their eyes meet, and Tony – the real, unpolished Tony that Steve likes best, the Tony who drinks coffee by the gallon to push through the night and finish Clint’s new bow and who has no brain-to-mouth filter – Tony gently tugs on Steve’s wrist, until his hand goes from Tony’s shoulder to his chest. To the arc reactor.

“Tony…” Steve knows he hates anyone touching it.

“I trust you, you know? You… you don’t have to avoid it. I trust you with my life, Steve.”

Steve gulps. “Uh, same.”

“You won’t break me, okay?” Steve has the strange feeling they’re having two conversations at the same time, and he’s not sure where he lost the thread. “I’m not as breakable as you think I am. I’m just… a regular human, but that doesn’t mean I’ll crumble down and die tomorrow. I’m stronger than that; I’ve survived more than that, and I will again. Do you understand?”

Steve flattens out his palm over the reactor; he can feel its faint thrumming, probably only because he’s enhanced. Tony isn’t; Tony… Tony doesn’t want to feel he is the weaker link, a liability to protect, someone to worry over. “You’re right, nothing knocks you down for long,” he whispers. “But I… I can’t imagine waking up one day and…”

“I’m right here, right now.” Yeah. Yeah, he is. “We’ve danced around this long enough, don’t you think?”

And they say Steve’s the brave one. He’s not; Tony is. Right now, Steve is frozen, unable to move – where should his hand go? Can it go everywhere? Can he get closer; can he kiss –

“Aw, hey, come here.” Tony grabs Steve’s shirt, pulls until he forces Steve to straddle him; Steve, of course, has to hover over Tony’s thighs, because a _bullet went through it_ earlier today. Yesterday. Whatever.

“Here?” Steve says, transfixed by Tony’s lips.

“Ah, yes, perfect.”

Steve looks into Tony’s eyes, and he quite agrees. “Uh,” he says. Smooth, Steve.

But Tony doesn’t seem to care; his hands go straight to Steve’s thighs and he seems to like what he’s touching. “you’ve really got great legs, Steve.” The hands move a bit, and Steve’s pretty sure his face is scarlet by now. “And Ass. Love your ass.”

“Uh.” His mouth is so dry.

“And your mouth,” Tony adds. “I want to kiss you. Do you mind?”

Steve shakes his head and bends forward. Yes, he certainly does want to kiss Tony.

* * *

Matt is released the next day, and Foggy doesn’t have to work too hard to convince him to come to Foggy’s apartment for a few days. Frankly, it’s surprising; he’d expected more resistance and a desire to suffer climbing stairs instead of having a nice, comfortable elevator, but maybe the promises of blowjobs and some Nelson Brand TLC are enough to make Mr. Martyr reconsider his views on recovery.

Of course, he still has to take a very firm stance on work or going out at night while he _still has stitches in the gut, Jesus, Matt_ , but it looks like a judicious application of sex, food, and under-blanket couch cuddles can work wonders. Maybe Foggy should have declared his impure intentions sooner and put them both out of their misery.

He gets his shitty plastic tree out of storage and decides that no, it’s not going to work, so he and Matt go on a Tree Quest to get a real one that’s pleasing to both Foggy’s eyes and Matt’s nose, holding hands all the while. Then they spend an evening playing with tinsel and decorating it, and it takes more time than it should for Reasons.

Maggie comes to take the stitches out and doesn’t comment on the obvious fact no one’s been sleeping on the couch while Matt was healing, and she gives them a tin filled with cookies before leaving with one last, very piercing look at Foggy. Not a hostile look, mind you, but she’s still a bit scary. She’s _intense;_ Matt really didn’t fall far from the tree.

And then, two days before Christmas, after Matt has officially relocated to his own apartment, a courier comes up and knocks on Foggy’s door. He’s holding something flat and squarish, and Foggy immediately knows what it is. He gets his power drill out, puts the painting on the wall, and calls Matt.

“What are you doing tonight?”

“You know I’m going out. We’ve talked about it.”

Yes, they have. Foggy isn’t too happy Matt’s putting on the suit so soon after getting gutted (no, Foggy’s _not_ exaggerating), but Matt needs it, and he’s promised to be careful and not overdo it. Foggy doesn’t have many illusions, but at least he knows Matt will try. “Yeah, I meant afterward. Do you want to come by?”

“It’s going to be late.”

“I can wait. Please?”

Matt sighs, but he relents. With great Daredevil-whisperer power comes great responsibility, and getting your boyfriend to come to you after their night shift fits the bill: Foggy checks his fridge to make sure he’ll have something to feed Matt after his roof-running hours and shaves very, very closely. Baby-face, smooth-skinned Foggy for the defense.

Of course, he comes via the roof and fire escape. Foggy hears a knock on the window and he goes to open it; Matt looks fine. Uninjured. And also just _fine_ , you know? The tight thermal shirt is, uh. Nice. And the pants are – anyway. Foggy clears his throat, and Matt smirks. Asshole.

“Did you have a good night?”

“It was quiet.” Whether a quiet night is good or bad in Matt’s opinion will remain a mystery for now, but it doesn’t really matter. Matt takes his mask off and moves to kiss Foggy, but then stops.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing in the direction of the art on Foggy’s wall. “There’s something there. Smells different. Paint? Varnish. Wood?”

“It’s a painting. Uh, _the_ painting, you know? The one I liked, at the gala. It didn’t get damaged.”

Matt’s eyebrows go up. “Did you buy it? Captain America’s art… must be expensive.”

“Nope. I mean yes, probably expensive, though the signature isn’t _Cap_ , just _Steve_. He and Stark sent it, with a note to wish us Happy Holidays and send their thanks.” And add that they’d be welcome at the tower anytime, but Foggy doesn’t want to spring that on Matt right now.

“It’s the one of the city at night, right? From a roof.”

“Yep. It looks like it’s a view from here, in fact, if not this building exactly then from this block.”

“I’m not surprised; they came here a while ago and Steve was talking about sketching.”

Foggy looks at the painting, then back at Matt. “Hey, what if we got up on the roof right now?” Matt blinks. “I described the painting to you, but you’ve never described to me how you… sense the city. So we could do that. If you’d like.”

Matt opens his mouth then closes it; he doesn’t know what to say. “You want me. To tell you about that?”

“Well yes. Unless you don’t want to, of course.”

Since he learned about Daredevil, Foggy has never really asked about the details of Matt’s senses. At first he was mad; he felt betrayed, even if he came to understand why Matt hid so much. Then, he just… what if Matt didn’t want to talk about it? What if Foggy just couldn't understand? Finding Matt bleeding out on his floor created a rift, and the closeness of their younger days just shattered. But they rebuilt everything, added some more floors to their own tower, in fact, so now was probably a good time. He wants to show Matt he is really, truly okay with all he is, day Matt and night devil. Well, sure, Foggy could do with fewer injuries, but… it’s all part of Matt. He won’t take a half-Matt, or demand Matt renounce what makes him, him.

“Uh, I do.”

… aaand now Foggy has a sudden idea brought about by these specific words. Something to mull over, but later. He takes the blanket that lives on the couch, puts his coat on, and follows Matt out.

Once they’re up, Matt stands behind him and wraps his arms around Foggy’s waist, loose but comforting; Foggy throws the blanket over the both of them like a two-person cape. Or maybe like Daredevil’s cape, while he’s got his own flesh-and-blood one.

“I don’t need a blanket,” Matt mumbles. He’s already stuck his (COLD Matty!) nose in Foggy’s neck and his hair is tickling Foggy’s cheek.

“Yes you do; now you’re not going full parkour, your thermals aren’t going to be enough.”

“Mm.”

Foggy’s lips twitch; Matt never thinks about bundling up in wintertime – or he pretends cold is for other people – but if you drop an afghan or a fleecy sweater on him he’s going to turn full burrito right away. Not because he’s cold, of course. Daredevil doesn't get cold; it’s beneath him.

Far ahead of them, Stark’s tower is all lit up; green and red then blue and silver then, unsurprisingly, gold and red. It’s pretty, if a bit gaudy. Well, Iron Man has never been one for discretion. “How far can you sense the buildings around us?”

One of Matt’s hands lifts away from Foggy to gesture in front of them. “Stark’s tower in that direction, lots of electricity in the air. Turned up the heat? Some light show?”

“Yeah, it’s got blinking, sparkly lights all over.”

“Now there,” he points at a low-rise two blocks away, his face still smooshed in Foggy’s shoulder, “is where Marta, the barista at that coffee shop you like, lives. She’s got two cats and she loves mulled wine. She was making some tonight; I could smell it when I was patrolling.” The tower’s display turns into a giant Christmas tree. “Behind us, there’s a brick building with a very rusty fire escape. On the fourth floor, a man’s about to propose. I can hear the neon lights buzzing down in the pizza joint you like, the one that’s always open; then there’s a dog… uh.” He lifts his head away from Foggy’s neck, and Foggy shivers.

“What is it?”

“Look up,” Matt says.

So Foggy does, and a few seconds later he sees him: Iron Man, flying above the city and doing loop-de-loops. It looks like he’s just having fun, although he might call it _trying out a new suit_ or _recalibrating the… calibrators_ , or whatever sciencey justification an engineer would give. After a while he flies back to the tower and seems to be doing something on the façade, maybe poking at the bazillions of LEDs he’s put there.

“You know we’ve got a standing invitation there, right?”

“I don’t want to go. I’m not a team player, Foggy, not for what they want.”

“I don’t think they want to force you to be an Avenger, but maybe you could meet them at least? And Steve’s nice.” Foggy is well aware Matt is not a Stark fan but he does respect him, which is better than before they were kidnapped together. Silver linings, eh? Get knifed, but make friends.

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

And that’s the best he can hope for tonight, so Foggy lets it go. He hopes Matt will learn to trust more, to ask for help more easily, but it’s a work in progress and it’s happening, even if slowly. He has to trust Matt, and he does. He really does. As he thinks about all it took to get them right here, right now, snow starts to fall. He watches the snowflakes fall on Matt’s dark sleeve, on the blanket; at first they melt right away but then they don’t, and he knows it means they’re too cold and should go in now.

“Matt,” he whispers.

“Mm.”

“Let’s go back inside, okay?”

“Why?”

“Because I want us to be warm.”

“But I don’t want to leave,” Matt whines. His arms tighten around Foggy, which is not cute at all.

“We can leave the roof, but you can stay here tonight, with me.” Every night, if he wants to, or maybe they can split between his and Matt’s apartment. They haven’t worked out the details of their arrangement yet, but he knows it’s going to happen, and he knows it’s going to be great.

Far from them, the winter-themed light display changes into an Avengers-themed one; Thor’s hammer and the Hulk and a bow and arrow and… Foggy smiles: Cap’s shield turns into Iron Man’s helmet, then back into a shield.

“Come on, Matt, I’m cold and I’ve got ideas about warming up.”

And that’s enough to make Matt run ahead of him to the roof door, like the dork he is. But he’s Foggy’s dork, and Foggy’s not sharing.


End file.
